Esperance Qui M'Asseüre
by MadameMorganLeFay
Summary: After the horrifying battle of Aganethyn, Arthur's only source of comfort is his best friend Merlin- if only he could find him. One-Shot. Title translation: "Hope, which assures me".


**Another sad one-shot from me, this time based on Arthur- Merlin bromance, which I adore. The title is taken from a rondeau of the same name by medieval composer "Guillaume de Machaut", who actually lived around three hundred to five hundred years after the historical King Arthur. Imperfect, I know. Here y'all go...**

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**Esperance Qui M'Asseüre**

The sky was heavily pregnant with rain, grey, dark, brooding, rumbling like some fearsome hungry monster over the carnage that lay below it. Smoke clogged the air on the ground, withered stumps of trees and posts bravely stood upright, lost markers in the dead, cracked earth. Grimy, bloody bodies writhed in hellish agony across the plain of Aganethyn, their earthly weapons cast aside in despair, as if their swords had forsaken them. Their gnarled fingers clutched desperately at a non-existent reprieve, their cries rang out into the frozen air, hollow and prolonged death knells for no one's ears.

The gruesome battle had been a long and arduous one, and no expense had been spared. It had all began when Morgana had conspired with King Gruddyn of Candyd to call into question one of Camelot's ancient land claims, knowing that Arthur would refuse any form of intimidation. Without hesitation, war had been declared and Arthur had been left with no choice but to put his chin up and lead his men into the thick of it. For the duration of the seven day conflict, both sides had resorted to every trick in the book to try and defeat the other- dead rats in food supplies, fire-arrows, poison-tipped spears, boiling oil, but the forces of Candyd had been no match for the superior skill of Camelot's army, though the latter had lost devastating swathes of men, their husks strewn across the battleground, as lifeless as the soil beneath them.

Everywhere, death, extirpation, misery, and anguish. Blood soaked the ground; cries filled the sky. Men expired minute after minute, abandoning the fight for survival. Flesh turned paler and paler, whilst hungry rats foraged in the feast of human meat, ingurgitating limbs, fingers, innards into their diseased bodies, before staggering off to succumb to the plague which infected them. Maggots started to inhabit the mouths and stomachs of the dead, bursting out when fully grown, using the body of the deceased as a pathway into life, feeding greedily off their putrid petrified flesh.

Amongst the tragedy, King Arthur Pendragon lay against a post near the end of the corpse-like field, and saw all of this. He groaned, the sight of death completing his work on friend and foe alike too much to bear, let alone he had suffered only a relatively minor gash to his side and head, the typical shock that came with such a massacre of men had rendered him weak, helpless- everything he hated to be. Nevertheless, the King allowed himself to rest a while, knowing that it would benefit him in the long term, rather than further ravage his body in taxing himself with acting as if he was fully capable of coherent thought and action.

His frozen fingers uncurled themselves, caked in dirt and viscous blood, and he tried to move his seemingly paralyzed legs, make them obey him; he was not successful in this endeavour. For a fleeting moment, he experienced that familiar emotion he was careful to hide; fear. Not the simply fear of mundane consequences, or the melodramatic kind; real, liquid fear, icy to the touch and painfully insidious, creeping up his spine and skittering down his veins. Was he hurt, and had simply not realized it all this while?

And as his mind screamed in confusion, only one thought could be clearly deciphered: Merlin.

The King opened his eyes, finding a sudden inner resolve to straighten up. With sharper eyes, he quickly scanned the surrounding area, sifting through the silt in the air. The conclusion was evident even before he tried: his manservant... no, his _best_ friend was nowhere to be seen. Panic quickly struck; it was all Arthur could do to ignore the nagging reminders that one of the dead men spreadeagled at Aganethyn could be the one man whose counsel, loyalty and friendship he valued above all of his knights and courtiers. It was virtually impossible to imagine that endearingly upbeat man struck into silence by the sly, wicked and sudden hand of Death himself, but all of a sudden, he was cast into that possibility, and he simply could not handle it. A throbbing pain forced his eyelids to shut momentarily; he almost thought he was blinded. After a while, he opened them again with less difficulty, fright suddenly making him stand up, his mind decided.

He had to find his friend; his friend was alive, he repeated like a mantra in his injured mind. Arthur wobbled a little as he took his first step, the field starting to swim as he watched with fascinated horror as a rat crawled out of the hollowed out chest of a knight he had known only seven hours before as Sir William. Now he was nothing more than a twisted, yellowing face with his insides exposed, his once finely honed body a glistening lump of bones, peeling skin, and maggot-infested flesh.

Arthur swallowed, stomach fluid rising, tears threatening to overrun his face, anger growing. His fingers clenched, then released the tension. Why, he asked himself. What had he done? Why did people hate him so much they would slaughter each other to bring him down? He breathed through his nose slowly, savouring every particle of filthy air, before taking his own cloak-which had been flung nearby- to cover what remained of the once noble and courageous man.

But purpose drive him on, for the only man that would lessen the scale of tragedy and calm his agitated nerves was missing, and if that was the case, it did not bode well for the King's wellbeing. Merlin was the man who chattered away happily and made Arthur forget his own fears. Just one impish, inappropriate smile made him fight hard not to return the favour. And those jokes; how ridiculous they were! And how he loved to smack his manservant around the back of the head for daring to volunteer such gormless humour to his life... so that the King could turn away afterwards, trying not to laugh, too. Now... all those long hours of banter and jokes were a distant memory already, a faint whisper of another time. He almost smiled to see himself two years ago, whining and whining about how annoying Merlin was- it had never occurred to him that those had been the best days.

Optimistic, that was what Merlin had been- always optimistic, regardless of whether the servant himself was content or melancholy- especially of the latter, as Arthur had often thought he could hint an underlying sadness in his friend. There were times when the lovable scrawny man would stare at a fixed point for a long while, his eyes brooding, on occasions even miserable, wistful, tearful, his mouth turned down; the stream of prattle would stop, and Arthur would be left feeling uneasy again, unsure of how to return Merlin to his regular disposition, because... the idea that something could upset Merlin... could _hurt _him was inconceivable to the King. Yet despite the trust he had placed in his manservant, he could not claim that he knew all of him.

What troubled the man, what ailed him? What could swing someone from smiling sunbeams to moping around as though some cloying shadow hung low and heavy over their back? Maybe it had something to do with the never-ending sequence of unexplained events that always seemed to occur around him. Arthur definitely had his suspicions where twigs that conveniently cracked and arrows that conveniently changed course before they hit him were concerned, but quite frankly, he could not bring himself to that conclusion, and he did not want to explain why.

He was an unrivalled enigma, dishevelled and deceptively clumsy in his manners and appearance, yet suddenly reversing first perceptions with an unexpected show of bravery, confidence, intelligence...wisdom. How many would be evildoers had the servant exposed? How many times had he saved Arthur's life, regardless of his own welfare? How many times had he said something that made sense, or provided him with much-needed hope?

God, the man needed a promotion, Arthur realized as he trudged past more aching corpses. All this time he had underestimated the young man... His arrogance had been proven wrong every single time. Yet when he had first Knighted his commoners, he had left Merlin out. And the latter had said nothing, simply happy for everyone else, like the selfless man he was. Arthur felt so ashamed, and even more crushed that he was only contemplating a proper reward when he was desperate to find Merlin. Trust him only to become marginally humane when there was a risk that he had lost someone dear to him. It was completely inexcusable. When he saw the man, the first thing he was owed was a deep and heartfelt apology, a word of relief and thanks, a hug- he needed that too. Nothing could make up for the insults he had rained on Merlin's undeserving head, but he could try and resurrect their friendship. He simply _had_ to find him...

If Merlin wasn't alive... Arthur blinked back another threatening surge of tears. He would laugh about it later, how he could cry over a man who mucked out his stables, but now it was the only natural thing he could do. But that didn't make it any less bizarre. The boy had always said he would willingly die in place of his King, but Arthur had never really comprehended the exact meaning of such a promise. He had always expected Merlin to... be there. He had grown so used to turning to his right, or glancing behind him and seeing his awkward manservant tottering by his side; it was like breathing- so natural and effortless. What would he do? How could he go on? How could the kingdom progress successfully without his right-hand man, his confidant- a man who was almost family?

The future did not bear contemplating, so Arthur continued to trudge like a lost, world-weary soul, eyes roving the plain of death, looking for one single encouraging sign of Merlin; the worn, shabby clothing, the shock of dusky hair, the peaky, sallow face, that ever-crumpled neck-tie. All these features, so strange, so irritating, so unique, so endearing- these were the signs that would alleviate Arthur's overwhelming grief. So he had to continue walking- all day and all night if neccessary, disturbing the dead, leaving no stone unturned until he found him.

**FINIS**

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**Did that make you weep in dismay? Are you banging your heads against the wall in despair? Do you want a restraining order against me writing depressing material? **


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